Melancholy & Missing Lighters

 I wander all night in my vision, Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping, Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers, Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,  Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping. How solemn they look there, stretched and still! How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles! The wretched features of ennuyés, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists, The gashed bodies on battle-fields, the insane in their strong-doored rooms, the sacred idiots, The new-born emerging from gates, and the dying emerging from gates, The night pervades them and infolds them. Poem Taken from: Walt Whitman , American Poet, 1819 - 1892 Cousineau, Phil (editor).  Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day.  Viva Editions, 2013.

 Tropical showers--  Underneath your rustling tarp I'm slowly drowning

S ick on my journey, Only my  dreams  will  wander These  desolate  moors . . . Matsuo Basho (1644 - 1694) Edo Period   Taken from:  Basho's death poem . Basho's Death Poem  by  Matsuo Basho. (2011, May 13). Retrieved  December 8, 2022, from https://www.poetry.com/poem/27153/basho's-death-poem

... In Memory of Freddy ... The city left patches of beige on the bridge by the tracks; They are faint, but our tags and messages can still be read, My friend says that one of them belongs to someone now dead; My friend then retraces them all, Ink placing a curse on the wall.

 What was it I was going to say? Slipped away probably because it needn’t be said. At that edge almost not knowing but second guessing the gain, loss, or effect of an otherwise hesitant remark. Slant of light on a brass box. The way a passing thought knots the heart. There’s nothing, nothing to say. Poem taken from: Are You Going to Stay? by Thomas Meyer. Poets.org. Retrieved November 22, 2022, from https://poets.org/poem/are-you-going-stay 

 'Neath a rail bridge, escaping the sun's glare, The smell of creosote in the air, Dripping and hanging from the wooden stands, Braiding my loose hair with dusty hands; The Texas heat has made my tongue go dry, Being unheard's made me go awry, I am made mortal in glass and dog's blood, A dream I wish you'd never woke from.

 It was at a wine party— I lay in a drowse, knowing it not. The blown flowers fell and filled my lap. When I arose, still drunken, The birds had all gone to their nests, And there remained but few of my comrades. I went along the river—alone in the moonlight. . . . Li Bai (Li Po, Li Pai)  (701-762) Tang Dynasty Chinese Poet Poem taken from: Translated by Shigeyoshi Obata The solitude of night by Li Bai . Poetry Foundation. Retrieved November 4, 2022, from https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52535/the-solitude-of-night 

 My train, in dark and quiet country, stops. I feel a spectator to gathering fae, Whilst gazing blinking lights of fireflies That're strewn about, in perfect pleasure 'mongst The grassy fields that're overgrown and wild; To join their games, forbidden, lest my train Depart, and leave me stranded, far from all.

I myself have a similar experience to both J and her mother. It's admittedly less horrifying and a little more odd. I was still fairly young (maybe four years old) when this took place, so maybe it was a hallucination or a warped memory, yet it's one of the few clearest memories I have from my childhood. It was the middle of the day and I had just woken up from a nap. I still recall the plastic bedframe and the dresser at the foot of the bed. On top of that dresser was a merry-go-round type toy. They were ballerina bears. Well, I watched as one of the bears kind of split open, like a door. Then, stepping out of the bear was a thumb sized creature. I remember it looked like a cartoonish alligator, looked to have green skin and a stubby snout. The creature's mouth was gaping open and had a hand in front of its open mouth, like it was yawning.  Freaked out, I hid under the covers. But when I peeked out, the creature was gone.

 After my friend J had informed her mother of the eerie rabbit-like creature slinking through her room, J's mother shared with her daughter her own terrifying encounter. As a child, J's mother had shared a bed with her brother. But her brother was fast asleep beside her when a sprite-sized man dressed in green and face full of reddish whiskers appeared in the children's bedroom. The little girl was wide awake as she watched the small man take a seat at the edge of the bed. They stared at each other a few moments, before the sprite said, "If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill you." Then, he got off the bed, opened up the door just across from the bed, and walked down into the basement, closing the door behind him. J's mother had remained dutifully silent up until her daughter had a similar experience. She was afraid that the sprite had returned for her.

 My fancies are fireflies-- Specks of living light Twinkling in the dark. "Let me light my lamp," Says the star, "And never debate If it will help to remove the darkness." Poem taken from: Rabindranth Tagore , Indian Poet and Philosopher, 1861 - 1941 Translated from the Bengali by the author Cousineau, Phil (editor).  Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day.  Viva Editions, 2013.

 This is yet another experience of my friend, J's. It was the eve of Easter. J was at an age when she still believed in Easter Bunnies and Santa Claus. So, like most children holding these beliefs, she would stay up late on these holiday evenings in the hopes of seeing one of these mythical beings.  J was tucked in bed and her door was closed, as per tradition, so that her parents may hide gifts in secret. But when her door knob began to turn, she shut her eyes, squinting slightly.  When the door opened a crack, J watched as a two foot tall rabbit-looking creature slipped in. Something felt wrong. J may have maintained her belief of an Easter Bunny, but she felt certain that creature was not the Easter Bunny.  It had the body of a rabbit, but its face was a grotesque attempt at imitating a rabbit. It was slightly warped and wrong. The rabbit, as it was partway through the door, made an exaggerated gesture of slowly turning its head side to side, like a cartoon charac...

 Growing up, my friend, J, lived in a house full of paranormal activity. One of the strange entities that made frequent appearances lived in the downstairs bathroom, right across from the side door that leads outside. She explained that the creature very strongly resembled the aliens from that movie in the 80's "Critters". That bathroom door was always latched shut, aside from a sliver of a gap to allow their cats to slip in to use the litter box. J said the cats were never harmed. But wheb she would come in through the side door at night, she would always see the creature peering out through the door at her. It was about a foot tall, and had red eyes and a smiling mouth full of sharp teeth.  It never left the bathroom, but that wouldn't stop J from bolting up the stairs every time.

 If choice be mine, for how I'd leave this life, I'd wrap myself in flowers, blooming roses blue, The thorns would pierce my skin and bleed me dry, My form, away from prying eyes, their leaves would hide, As petals softly brush my eyelids closed,   As though I'm lost in scents so sweet.

 When she was a teenager, my friend, J, had gone to a friend, who we'll call A's house to spend the night, along with their other friend, who we'll call B. B was visiting from the next state over, and like J, she had her own paranormal background.  Back at her home, B had been living with a ghost who had become attached to her. When he would make an appearance, the apparition looked to be a young man with black hair and dressed in a black leather jacket. During the night of the sleepover, the three teens headed out into the back yard for some reason or other. When they looked back up at A's bedroom window, they noticed a man beckoning for them to come inside. He looked like B's house ghost.  So, the girls, obsessed with such matters, were not frightened of a possible intruder; rather, they figured he was trying to warn them, so they listened and ran back into the house. Not too long after, the phone rang. It was B's mother. She was frantic, asking if everything ...

 When my friend, J, was a teenager, she had been sitting on her bed in her room, when her door suddenly opened. She couldn't see anyone, but she heard what sounded like a boy and a girl talking to each other as they walked into her room. The girl then asked, "Should we try talking to her?" The boy replied, "She can't even hear us." J, chimed in "Uh, yes, I can hear you." The room went dead silent, as though the sound of J's voice scared off her two invisible visitors.

(Source) Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, saying, what joy to come falling out of the brisk cloud, to be happy again in a new way on the earth! That’s what it said as it dropped, smelling of iron, and vanished like a dream of the ocean into the branches and the grass below. Then it was over. The sky cleared. I was standing under a tree. The tree was a tree with happy leaves, and I was myself, and there were stars in the sky that were also themselves at the moment at which moment my right hand was holding my left hand which was holding the tree which was filled with stars and the soft rain – imagine! imagine! the long and wondrous journeys still to be ours. Poem taken from: Mary Oliver , American Poet, 1935 - 2019 Cousineau, Phil (editor).  Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day.  Viva Editions, 2013.

 My friend, J, also had an experience with a ghost in her bed. This took place when she had been living in a cottage with her boyfriend at the time.  The couple were in bed in the early evening; J was reading while her boyfriend dozed off to sleep. J then became aware of a lump moving under the blanket near her legs. Then, she felt what felt like a hand grabbing onto her shin. The hand started shaking her leg while laughing. Tense and frightened, J shook her boyfriend awake. But when he woke up, the hand and laughing stopped. Annoyed and not believing what J was telling him, the boyfriend turned back over to sleep. Shortly after, the hand started shaking J's leg again. Then, of course, when she woke her boyfriend up again, the hand once again had stopped. J ended up just letting the ghostly hand shake her leg until it became bored.

 This was another experience my aunt had shared with me. When she was younger, she had been renting a room in an old, large house. I believe it had only occurred one time. But while she was lying in bed, there was a sudden shifting at the edge of her bed. It looked and felt as though someone lunged onto the bed, ran across it, and then jumped back off.

My body trembles, existence regretfully true, I'm trapped inside this form I cannot break, I feel a rising swell that's crushing bones, I feel a fire that's melting flesh in my head–  Return me, far from here, primordial seas, Return to tides, a current pulling me under, Beneath the waves, disappear, like salt dissolves.

 My aunt told me about this experience when I asked about the name "Tom" that was scratched into the concrete floor at the bottom of the concrete stairs. She had become a bit nervous. But with an uncomfortable laugh, she informed me that Tom had been the house's previous owner. Apparently, he also died in the house. Then she went on to tell me when she had met him. She was certain she was in a dream, because she had gone to sleep, but then she was suddenly looking around her room. Then, out of nowhere, a much older man appeared and started strangling her. Before she could pass out, he vanished just as suddenly as he had appeared. ... Other Spooky Season Stories: Zombie Girl

  Happy October! This is my favourite month, not only because it's my birth month, but of course, because it is also the month of Halloween 🎃🧹💀🍂 To celebrate, I'll be posting 10 creepy (allegedly) true stories recounted to me by family and friends.  I'll be posting these every Saturday and Monday until Halloween.  The first story I'm sharing is a favoruite one of many paranormal encounters shared with me by a friend of mine. Please enjoy~  The following story is my friend's, who we'll call J, experience.  ... Despite a lifetime of otherworldly encounters, this one, which took place six years ago, J says, was the most recent one. J had grown up in a house that seemed to have been a hub for paranormal activity. But, when she moved into her current house with her mom (sometime in the late 90's), there was very little activity, aside from the knocking at the front door. Every night, they heard the knocking, but they could never see anyone through the peepho...

(Source) The birds are gone to bed the cows are still  And sheep lie panting on each old molehill  And underneath the willow's grey-green bough  Like toil a-resting lies the fallow plough  The timid hares throw daylights fears away  On the lane road to dust and dance and play  Then dabble in grain by nought deterred To lick the dew-fall from the barley's beard  Then out they start again and round the hill  Like happy thoughts--dance--squat--and loiter still  Till milking maidens in the early morn  Jingle their yokes and start them in the corn  Through well-known beaten paths each nimbling hare  Starts quick as fear--and seeks its hidden lair Poem taken from: John Clare , English Poet, 1793 - 1864 Cousineau, Phil (editor).  Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day.  Viva Editions, 2013.

 A week of hitching, Left us worn and bitching, Til one last ride brought Us finally home -- To tracks and freight trains, Bridge full of rider tags, Shelter from the rains To come in this town Tucked in the mountains,  Of those mountains' streams, A river does run 'neath The bridge'o hobo dreams, Where we cook and sleep Til our ride does come.

(Source) Happy first day of autumn! 🍁🍂🍃 (A splendid spring to my southern hemisphere peoples~🌸) I'm certainly eager for the cooler days, spurring me on my journey back down south. Hiking and waiting on trains will be the slightest bit more comfortable. Let's forget the aesthetics of browning crop fields and mountains painted reds, oranges and yellows. To celebrate, I'll be sharing an excerpt from Washington Irving's most well-known story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow". This excerpt is probably my favourite part because of how Irving gushes over autumn's harvest in such rich detail. Irving seems to have had a tendency to be a bit too heavy with prose (he even pokes fun at this in his story "The Mutability of Literature"). But we can absolutely appreciate a drama king with flair xP I hope this gives you gooseflesh like it did when I first read it. Please enjoy~ ... It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and ...

I wake to the sound of trickling water and pines whispering in the wind.  My body is sore as I uncurl myself from the fetal position I had slept in. My limbs groan as I drag myself out of the small section sandwiched between the steel wall and the steel mechanical arm that shifts whenever the train turns. For now, the train is still and silent.  We're sided out on a single track flanked by a ledge that tumbles down into a river that's mostly obscured from my view by pine trees. With a sudden creak and groan of its own, the train inches forward.  It pulls onto a bridge, where we creep over a wide, rich emerald green river dotted with sandbars. Once we're on the other side of the bridge, the train stops again. The sky is a powdery blue; the sun's beginning to light up the world. This general manifest train, made up of mostly closed boxcars, along with a sparse number of hopper cars and hazmat tankers strung together, had departed north just after dark.  Upon checking m...

I wake to the sun that's smothered by a sheet Of clouds that linger grey with the threat of rain. The air is cooler, less oppressive than The hot and muggy night I seldom slept. I hope this wave of heat be ending soon; As far up north I'm 'legally' allowed To roam, and Maine's not spared this brutal burn; So wicked a summer, many more to come. Extend and curl my toes and fingers, stretch My body far as possibly I can, Then, sink myself upon my sleeping bag Beneath that keeps my form afloat and safe. Above, a tarp just purchase, bristling pines,  And dreary sky; I dread the days to come, But now, in this untethered moment, time That's fading quick, existence feels alright.

Are you feeling fine? Are you in your head? If you're out of time, You could end up dead. Now I can barely breathe, And I can't wait to leave, And I can feel the world passing through my hands, And I can see the light falling through the sands, And I am drowning in this reality,  Can someone help me remember what's unseen? But I don't want to know,  What happens in the end. Are you feeling fine? Are you in your head? If you're out of time, You could end up dead.

 A cup of wine under the flowering trees; I drink alone, for no friend is near. Raising my cup, I beckon the bright moon, For he, with my shadow, will make three men. The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine; Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side. Yet with the moon as my friend and the shadow as slave, I must make merry before the Spring is spent. To the songs I sing, the moon flickers her beams, In the dance I weave, my shadow tangles and breaks. While we were sober, three shared the fun; Now we are drunk, each goes his way. May we long share our odd, inanimate feast, And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky. . . . Li Bai (Li Po, Li Pai) (701-762) Tang Dynasty Chinese Poet Poem taken from: Cousineau, Phil (editor). Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day. Viva Editions, 2013.

 You're all going to die, There's nothing you can do, You're all going to die, There's no one you can sue, You can't take your clothes, You can't take your jewels, You're all going to die, And you all look like fools. Another snooty town, Full of people, those fiends, Another snooty town, No one will help me leave, You can't take your clothes, You can't take your jewels, You're all going to die, Might as well help me through?

He said: "Look at what I found, I think that it's cocaine", I left to go and see if they were building our train, I came back to find my love limp and face pale blue, Our train took off and I did what I could do. I was slapped by an email that rejected my poem, The slap left me bleeding with a punctured eardrum, I cried through the vertigo and tore through my pack, I found my narcan, then I slapped him right back. He said: " Why would you cut fentynal in ketamine? "Or any psychedelics? It makes no sense to me, "They're trying to kill us," he continued in despair, "They just want to own us, and make us unaware, "I've lost many friends to this useless filler, "Yuppies blame us for the fault of our killer." Take what you want from the words that he has said, All I know's I almost lost my closest friend. Maybe people shouldn't treat drug users with such hate, They've got their own reasons to self-medicate, Like docto...

Bookshelf by the door, Lined with tales of faeries, and Guides to the wild world

 I think myself a faerie, As nature seems to know, When to pick me up, When I've sunken low.

This country is not a home; it is a plantation, a coal mine, a factory, a corporation. This world breeds independence; independent cogs only meeting to spur production. Our families are too small, our cities are too big. You must work to be worthy. You must not ask for help, or else you're helpless. We have our natural talents and duties, yet we're only deemed useful when we share the same routine. On the road, left to the streets, I've found my clan, my community. Yet seldom can we meet without raising suspicion. We're suspects of freely following our natural human rhythm. So often we're forced, we always SEPA RATE. To make miles, to survive, in the production plant, we must be alone to get by. At every yard and every on-ramp, we're forced to say 'goodbye'. No cart of mule without special permission allowed. Only dusty freight and automobiles that always break down. I can't rise in the morning and see you all there. We can't share stories and sh...

It  is easy, for the people that deny us a ride to civilization, a dollar to buy gear, or a bite to escape hunger, to forget. To forget and move on in blissful ignorance. Ignorance towards the starvation and illness just beyond their plastered walls. Walls which provide nothing more than the illusion of safety. Walls reinforced by the paper-thin illusion of laws. Both which will burn the moment the wind changes course. It is easy for them to forget that they are a tragedy away from being as stranded on death's doorstep as the trash on the street they scorn. But we do not forget, though we try. Each muscle ache, and every pound lost from our body's weight, bitterly recalls how worthless we are in every apathetic state. In a world that prides itself on the privilege of blissful ignorance. Though, can I truly blame them for their success in escaping an ugly reality and those still trapped?

My broken light, I scrounge up what I can -- The dark, So heavy -- Noise, So warped -- It hurts Inside my head, My broken sound. I search for sleep, I nod -- Another train Has gone. 

 

 If I jump from this train, will I die? Or will I be rendered paralysed? What a painful death that would be! Or would it be over quite quickly? I play with these  thoughts which tempt my fate, Gazing the steel wheels which carry my weight.

Do you count your nights awake? Hide from your life in the arms of the night, Does it take away your heart's ache? In the daylight you bleed for another's sake, Avoid the sun and bask in the moon's light, Do you count your nights awake? Number the hours, the seconds til you break, Dreading this endless war you fight, Does it take away your heart's ache? Your cries leave you to tremble and quake, The scars you carry, a heavy sight, Do you count your nights awake? You shiver, as your resolve does shake, Wearily grasping for a shred of might, Does it take away your heart's ache? Be gentle with the final breaths you take, When you elope with the reaper to be alright. Do you count your nights awake? Does it take away your heart's ache?

The pain of her death isn't gone. It never will be. But it's gotten easier to fade the pain into the background noise of a life that goes on without her. "Does that make me a bad mother?" I ask aloud as I glance into the parked SUV's rear view mirror.  I see the top corner of one of the five plastic storage bins that I keep stacked in the trunk. They're filled with Eva's heart: her book collection.  Eva had read each book in those containers at least twice. There was hardly a moment that she didn't have her nose buried in a novel. I finally peel myself out of my car. I've been sitting in there for the past hour; dreading my walk through the local park, but dreading returning to an empty house even more.  My therapist said I should "get more fresh air". Is that even an actual thing? Or is it just something people say instead of admitting that they don't know how to help you? The first thing I notice when I reach the park's foot pat...

  Dodging the sun in a Spanish moss covered wood, waiting for a ride,  I missed my stop and my skin misses the rush of the tide,   Sand stuck in my sleeping bag and clinging to my skin,  Squinting through a swollen face, burning from new rashes in this place I've too long been,   Trying to remember how to breathe in a tropical depression, a muggy melancholy that's unforgiving,  I sought refuge by a water spout yesterday, only to wake up and miss my train,   Can't sleep suspended in heat, and can't scratch this itch I've had the past week,  Losing hope in a tropical depression, waiting for and dreading rain but I guess I'll keep walking,  Let's wait for the night and just keep on walking.

 You need not worry if the weather report is wrong. Or maybe you do. But if you live and sleep under a roof, a little rain escaping the notice of local weather reporters has little effect on you. For us, it can spell disaster. When we go to sleep with a clear forecast and wake up in a torrential downpour, everything we own can get soaked in a matter of seconds. Phones, clothes, shoes and socks, all the tiny comforts and necessities for our survival can be ruined in a night. Or at least, we'll be delayed, which, depending on the circumstances, can be detrimental in of itself. We hardly have the money to stick around a place long. We have to keep moving. Making miles makes us money. Wrap your electronics in plastic. You can only do so much when the plastic degrades, forming tears and holes. It's more money to replace more plastic. I suppose a soggy sleeping bag is only a real danger in the colder months. Though I can assure you, it's a miserable, sticky slumber in heinously h...

  Folded napkins and frosted cups, I think I love you, but it's not enough, Cause we're weary and broken and chasing that childish glee, We are runoff in a gutter, and nothing's free, So we'll sit in silence in this diner empty, Then we'll run away and catch a train to keep our dreams plenty, And there's nothing no one can say to change our hearts, But there's something about this doubt that makes me fall apart, So rest your hand on mine and hold me near, Then close your eyes, we'll pretend we're far away from here.

  Mi nds draped in crystal dreams of the future, Tug at silver strings suspending galaxies,  And listen as ancient echoes unravel.

  This memory, a moment in time, her expression and words have stuck with me vividly. Although I don't recall the exact location, nor date. I was in Spain, traveling the country with a Tibetan Buddhist monk and nun. The nun was once the wife of a friend of my mother's; she had so graciously invited me to accompany the two of them as they held classes throughout Spain for roughly two weeks. I draw at times; whenever I am seized by a feeling that I struggle to articulate, I draw it. While I was at a Spanish local's house, lounging around with the nun and sketching a bit, she asked to take a look at some of my work.  I showed her (what I wasn't too embarrassed to share). One of the drawings was of a girl and a serpent. I had drawn it from a dream I had sometime that past year. I even explained this to her, as well as the story I had pieced together from it. She instantly glanced at me, her wide eyes glistening with genuine interest further magnified by her black rectangula...

  Mechanical monsters tear ancient forests asunder, Innocent blood mixes with soil, As people cast out their hearts for worldly desires.

  Sometimes I wish I wasn't here,  Wander around, then disappear,  I keep on talking, I keep on falling in my sleep,  I keep on bleeding, blood is seeping into my dreams,  Don't wanna feel no more,  Don't wanna be who I was before,  I came so far, I broke my heart to build myself,  But I'm still just pieces sitting on a dusty shelf,  Now I'm chasing trains and losing sleep,  Found a love I couldn't keep,  And watching the stars as I slip away,  Never seen this town before,  But there's one thing I know for sure,  Her song'll lead me back to the rails again,  I don't know what I'm living for,  Really wish I could close this door,  My hope is shaking, I'm losing faith in this life,  Cause I'm messing up everything I was gonna do right,  Now I'm covered in dirt and soot,  Tripping over my own foot,  Trying to chase down that double stack,  Uncertainty's filling me with fear,  ...